Holy Smoke
They say the Vatican
whispers in Latin
and hides its guilt behind stained glass.
They say
its silence has teeth—
and they bit children
while choirs sang.
They say:
“He was a man of peace.”
And maybe he was.
But peace isn’t enough
when justice dies first.
And you—
you, Marlboro,
don’t wear robes,
don’t preach salvation,
don’t kneel before anything but profit.
But you build your own church:
one of ashtrays and glass doors,
marketing hymns,
and ritual poisons.
You lit candles
in every household
and called it comfort.
You didn’t need a Bible—
you had addiction.
And that was enough
to keep us kneeling
in smoke.
The Pope is dead.
And you’re still alive.
But death alone
doesn’t weigh a soul.
Legacy does.
And yours?
Is smoke and silence.